


Cam

by pelinal



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 20:55:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15759510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelinal/pseuds/pelinal
Summary: "Alright, well, I'm on shift in a few hours, ma'am." God fuck what was her name. Sam. Pam. "I'll keep an eye out."Sam or Pam chews her bottom lip. Manny starts to make out her shape in the gloom. She's built, tall and kind of broad-shouldered, but looks too skinny and doesn't stand up straight. Dhatri would hate that. Are you a soldier or a sack of flour.





	Cam

**Author's Note:**

> i just wanna preface this by saying that i wrote the majority of this mess in late 2016 and i'm most likely not going to continue it, but who knows! i like cam and ive been known to pick up older projects lol...anyway please excuse the many grave characterisation and plot errors, and the nonsensical perspective; i am very aware of them :')

The girl looks rattled. Rattled enough that Manny let her drag his ass outside the town borders, past the front desk, at fuck past midnight. "A feral ghoul," she keeps insisting. Saw it outside the fence. She has this funny way of speaking, stop-start-stop, tripping over the same word five times. Brea-king words in half. Maybe she ate lead paint as a kid.

 

"Alright, well, I'm on shift in a few hours, ma'am." God fuck what was her name. Sam. Pam. "I'll keep an eye out."

 

Sam or Pam chews her bottom lip. Manny starts to make out her shape in the gloom. She's built, tall and kind of broad-shouldered, but looks too skinny and doesn't stand up straight. Dhatri would hate that. Are you a soldier or a sack of flour. But that beret she's messing with. . . "Hey, is that—?" he begins, and then all at once she tackles him, throws herself head first at his chest and just as they go down there's a burst of pain and a thunderclap—no—not thunder. It's Craig's fucking rifle.

 

* * *

 

Shouting's loud enough to hear from up here. Manny heads for the stairs—heads for Boone. So that's bad. It doesn't make sense. Why'd she fuck up his shot. Is Manny even with the Legion? Is she?

 

Manny bursts through the door and backs him up into the dino's teeth. Blood pouring down his face. "Boone—you piece of fucking shit."

 

"Manny," says Boone. That's all. (Manny this isn't what it looks like. Manny did you sell Carla. Manny I know you wanted her dead—)

 

"OK, alright, listen." Cam steps through the door real slow. Talks slow, but that's her way. "This is my fault."

 

"Nobody's arguing that, you stupid bitch!" Manny turns around, zones in on her. "You fuckin' marched me out for the firing squad! And you!" He turns back, leaning in too close. Looks sad, almost. "What the fuck? Why put her up to this? What did I ever do to you?"

 

"This wa—a," Cam tries, "this was my. . .fuckup. I'm here tracking some rogue Legionary for the NCR. Intel. . .our intel was faulty. We had the wrong Vargas."

 

"And Boone gave you his hat as a housewarming gift," says Manny bitterly. His mouth's twisted at the side. He's not smiling.

 

"I'm just a freelancer," stutters Cam. Calm. "I do intel. I'm no good with a weapon. But they wanted this guy out of the way fast, said to get the local Republic force involved if I had to."

 

"We're retired! And there's a ranger in town!"

 

"He's a cripple." Cam shakes her head. "I guess it takes one to know one. If the guy ran, it'd be the two of us trying to limp after him. Look," she puts her hand on Manny's shoulder, "I'm really sorry I got you into this mess. I'm a trained doctor—let me patch you up, okay? Free of charge." That's a big deal, and they all know it. Out here you pay for that quack Strauss or you rub dirt in it and pray.

 

Manny stops holding his hand to his head. It comes away red. "Jesus. This is fucked." He glares at Boone, but his eyes are glassy. "You thought I was Legion?"

 

No. Yes. Just need someone to have done it. Before Boone can answer, Cam speaks up. "It's just a scrape—it's not very deep. Let's just sit down somewhere and clean this up. You have a room here, right?"

 

"I uh, yeah I do."

 

"Good. Here, lean on me if you feel dizzy. Oh, not _too_ much, or we're both screwed." Cam looks back and shoots Boone a look he can't read. Just for a second, and then she and Manny disappear down the stairs.

 

Manny doesn't show up for his shift three hours later, but Cam does. "God I'm sorry I'm so sorry I thought it was all right there in front of me but I—"

 

"He's OK." It's a question.

 

"I—yeah. Manny? Yeah. He's fine. He's sleeping. The bullet just. . ." she swallows. "It just grazed him, thank God, it could have been so much—well, he's fine. Thank God."

 

Boone doesn't know how to feel about that. "That put you off trying again?"

 

"Try—you mean like find. . ." Cam shakes her head fast. "No. No way. I'm really sorry. I almost killed an innocent man. I can't risk that."

 

"So be sure."

 

"I. . . I don't know. I'll see. Or. . ." Cam straightens up. She's big, her hair brushes against the ceiling. "No, you know what? If your—if the person who sold your wife is in this town I'm gonna find them. I am. And I'll be sure." She sighs. "Do you want to check on Manny?"

 

"No." He shouldn't leave his post. And Manny won't want to see him.

 

"Oh. Suit yourself, I suppose."

 

That night, Cam stands in the same spot as before. Wearing Boone's beret. Jeannie May is with her. Fine. He takes the shot, and nobody stops him.

 

Boone waits for Cam to come up the stairs. She comes up slowly, _sorry, shitty leg you know_. She's looking at the ground, holding out a piece of paper.

 

He takes it. Squints at it. "No light."

 

Cam finds a lighter. When she flicks it her face lights up. Her eyes are wet.

 

Bill of sale. God. He skims through it—Jeannie May's name. Carla's name. Carla Boone. The slave Carla Boone. He's got nothing to puke up, so when he retches it's just sour spit.

 

"Oh, and your hat. Um, it's a little. . ." Cam stutters and holds out his beret. Damn thing's soaked red. Well. Darker red.

 

"Thanks," says Boone, taking it. He wipes his mouth and digs the caps from his pocket. "I owe you this."

 

"No way. Keep them. I fucked up."

 

"Not too bad."

 

"Try telling Manny that," says Cam. "Look, just keep them."

 

"No." Boone holds out the pouch of caps. He can play the waiting game.

 

Cam sighs. "Christ. Well, thank you. Hey." She offers a hand. It's missing a finger. "All the best, okay?"

 

"Sure. Back at you." Boone shakes her hand. She stands around for another second, so he blurts out "where are you headed" before he can think about it.

 

"Oh, um. There's this guy I'm after—not Legion. Just a personal thing. Manny's friends in the Khans said he was headed for Boulder City. And," she taps her chin, "I think I have to make a stop around Freeside. Also for personal reasons."

 

"Huh."

 

"But what about you? Are you sticking around here a while?"

 

"God. Not if I can help it." Boone fixes his sunglasses. "Might go after the Legion."

 

"Oh, well, I can understand that."

Cam snaps her fingers. "Now that you mention it, I was in Nipton not too long ago. Someone there told me the Legion was taking a couple of slaves south. . ."

 

* * *

 

Please don't let there be any crucifixions. Please _please_ don't let—

 

"What was Nipton like?"

 

"What?" Cam shakes her head a little, without really meaning to.

 

"You were there, right? Radio said it wasn't pretty."

 

"Oh, I, uh. . ." She wants to explain it—all of it—the lottery and the dogs and the heads on pikes and the _fucking_ wooden crosses. "No, I guess it wasn't."

 

"That all?"

 

"It's just what the Legion does. And I'm trying not to think about it, and I'm trying not to talk about it. So that's all." Cam bites her lip, thumbing the stub of her ring finger. "For now."

 

"Fine." They walk a few yards in silence before Boone stops short and crouches in the sand. In the distance, small figures roam around and huddle near campfires. "Not Legion. We'll go around."

 

"Jackals?"

 

"I dunno. Raiders're raiders."

 

"Huh." Cam laughs, for no reason, and jams her free hand over her mouth, drowning the urge to shout. _Come get it Jackal scum!_

 

Boone is probably looking at her sideways, but she pointedly doesn't meet his eye.

 

They make their way past the raiders mostly without incident. A few lookouts dot the perimeter, firing on them from rocky outcroppings that overlook the ruined freeway, but they're quickly dispatched. No thanks to you, says Boone under his breath. Whatever. She turns one over; the dead girl's jacket reads VIPERS.

 

"There," whispers Cam. Tiny deep-red figures wrapped up in bedrolls on top of a dune. Below them, a pit with a dead fire in the middle and four shivering tied-up Powder Gangers around.

 

"Didn't even set a lookout." Boone wrinkles his nose.

 

"That just makes this easier for us, right?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"I'll see if I can free those guys down there quietly. You've got a scope, you can line up shots from here."

 

"If I shoot one, they wake up. They wake up, they see you with their slaves and make a beeline for you."

 

"Be quick, then. I want to keep the element of surprise if possible." Cam checks around for a knife. "Shit. I need something to cut the ropes with."

 

"Here." Boone takes a machete off his belt. The hilt is adorned with scarlet ribbons and tiny bone carvings on leather straps.

 

"Good. Thanks. OK. Good luck." Cam weighs her options for a moment, then opts to grip the machete in her good ("good") hand, and hold the gun in her left—in which the twitching seems to be permanent. She creeps down into the valley at a painful snail's pace, trying not to disturb the sand with her stiff leg. The Powder Gangers catch sight of her, and wriggle like desperate worms trying to get her attention. She waves cautiously; the gesture seems to calm them down.

 

One of the four isn't even gagged. He just watches Cam silently, with heavy-lidded eyes. Cold apprehension in the pit of her stomach, Cam shuffles over on her knees and cuts his bindings. He sits up, but doesn't move after that, and Cam takes note of the blood crusting all down his chin and sealing his lips together. She swings her pack onto the sand, digging around for her canteen. "I promise I'll get to the rest of you in a second," she whispers as she works. "Here. It's water."

 

The Powder Ganger wipes the blood off on one of his sleeves, takes a sip from the canteen and swills it around, then spits it reddish-brown into the sand. He takes another gulp, swallowing it this time. Once satisfied, he tries to speak, but it comes out as a formless "aaauu". Nodding his thanks instead, he tears off into the desert. Cam checks the sleeping Legionaries for movement. Nothing. She turns back to the other three captives.

 

The next one she cuts loose is big and blond and crying like a baby. "'re you a doctor," he breathes, gripping her stained lab coat with a meaty hand.

 

"I—yeah, I. .  .yes."

 

"They broke my arm," he whimpers.

 

Cam sighs. "Christ I don't have time—look, run for Novac, right now, and I'll meet you there and see what I can do. Take off the Powder Gang jacket and _don't_ talk to Dr. Strauss." She'd probably find some way to break the other arm.

 

"Okay," he hiccups and runs off, cradling his arm to his chest. Please God take the long way around Nipton.

 

The other two leave without much ceremony. One claps her on the back and says ask for Hal at the NCRCF if you ever need anything.

 

Cam spies for the glint of a scope, and waves at it when she finds it. Immediately, a gunshot crackles through the night air. Boone must have been waiting on pins and needles for her to finish with the prisoners. The other legionaries, four or five of them, rip away their bedrolls and race down the dune, shouting. The first one throws himself at Cam, pinning her beneath him, and she can feel his breath on her face and a searing pain in her shoulder as she presses the gun to his throat—the highest she can reach—and fires. Another rifle shot sounds to her right. That leaves two.

 

One of the two, wearing feathers, runs at her brandishing a machete just like hers, only cleaner and less ornate. Cam suddenly finds she can't lift her left arm to aim the gun, and holds the knife out in front of her, scrambling backwards. The Legionary plunges his blade towards her chest, and with a herculean effort she holds him off, screeching and slicing at his hands. Boone, Boone, please, where are you. She drops to the ground to give him a clear shot. Right on cue, the legionary collapses, suddenly missing the side of his face.

 

Cam drops the machete and closes the 10mm in her grip, panicking, emptying the rest of its clip into the vicinity of the last roaring legionary. Out of eleven rounds, at least three or four must find their way into his chest and throat, which is more than enough. He goes down, the entire front of his uniform black with blood.

 

Cam crouches in the sand, fisting her right hand into the wet red fabric of her left shoulder. She watches Boone's silhouette come closer.

 

"You OK?"

 

"Yeah, I just—" Cam tries to roll her shoulder and bites her tongue to keep from groaning. "One of them sliced up my arm, but it's nothing serious."

 

"Took your sweet time with those Powder Gangers."

 

"One of them got his tongue cut out. . . I thought he should have some water," adds Cam, glaring. "Oh. Um."

 

"What."

 

"I told one of them to head for Novac and I'd meet him there."

 

"Jesus, Cam."

 

"His arm was broken! How many doctors do you think would treat him?"

 

"Manny's gonna shoot him."

 

"I hope not. I told him to leave the jacket and everything. Anyway." Cam picks some lint from her faded vault suit. "I'm not asking you to come back to Novac with me, but I need somewhere to treat him, if he's alive."

 

"Should just buy your own room if you're gonna invite every stray in for free stitches."

 

"Boone, please."

 

"Christ." Boone shakes his head, pausing for a second to think. Then he adds, "I'll come. Make sure he doesn't blow anything up. And if he brings his buddies and takes over town, it's your ass."

 

* * *

 

"Did I introduce m'self," says the blond Powder Ganger. "Name's Paul."

 

"Charmed. I'm Cam." Cam points at Boone, who's on the couch with his arms crossed. "That's Boone. He saved both of our asses," she smiles.

 

"Well thank you kindly in that case. Nice place y'both got here," grins Paul. His pasty face shines with sweat.

 

"Oh, I don't live here," says Cam quickly. "Boone, can you do me a favor?"

 

Boone grunts.

 

"Can you run out and see if Cliff Briscoe has any Med-X on him? Two or three if you can. If he doesn't have it, just come back."

 

"Mm."

 

She tosses him a bag of caps, and he catches it lazily, hoists himself off the couch and walks out.

 

"So, Paul." Cam tents her fingers as the door slams shut. "Can you guess what has to happen now?"

 

"Uh." Paul frowns and motions at the arm lolling in his lap. "You wrap it or somethin'."

 

"Sure. But the bone has to sit right first, doesn't it? So it doesn't heal crooked?"

 

"Reckon so," he says cautiously.

 

"Right. So I'm going to have to set it, like, sorta _crack_ it back into place." The boy winces. "Yeah. That's why we're getting you a Med-X. You're not afraid of needles, are you?"

 

Paul sticks his nose in the air and rumbles 'no ma'am'. He can't be out of his teens.

 

"Good. Good. . ." Cam trails off. "Oh. You don't still have your jacket, do you?"

 

"No ma'am, I left it behind just like you said."

 

"Hm. In that case. . .are you very attached to that shirt?" She hopes not. The blue long-sleeved blouse is ill-fitting and grimy.

 

"Well now." Paul smiles in a way he must think is coy. "Usually takes more'n that for a lady to get me undressed."

 

Cam sighs. "I need a sling. For your arm?"

 

"Oh. Yes'm." He starts to undo the buttons, shucks off the shirt on his good side and then grits his teeth and starts to peel the sleeve from his bad arm. Cam moves to help, but he hisses 'I got it'.

 

"Okay. Now. . ." Cam darts to the couch and roots around in her pack, coming up with a long, rusty-sharp pair of scissors. She lays the blouse out on the bed and starts to cut off the starched cuffs and collar when Boone comes in.

 

"40 each," he grumps, dropping a trio of needles next to her and then flopping down onto the couch.

 

"Hm. I've had better prices. I mean, I've had worse. . .um. Okay." Cam turns to Paul; the kid is sweating bullets now that everything's set up. "So I'm gonna finish cutting this fabric, and then I'll—administer a Med-X, right there." She pokes him lightly in his inner arm. "Then comes the bad part."

 

"Alright." Paul swallows hard.

 

"Now, um. . .shit. Boone?"

 

"Mm."

 

"I need you to help me set his arm."

 

"Why."

 

"I—" Cam splutters. "He's got a lot of muscle. I'm worried it'll be too much resistance."

 

"Oh, ma'am, I-I swear I won't resist none," Paul jumps in.

 

Cam smiles gently at him. "When you have a broken bone, the muscles around it kind of clench tight. And since you're so strong, I need someone just as strong to set those bones and muscles straight again. Does that make sense?"

 

Paul puffs up his chest. "Well, I just hope your man's up to it."

 

"I swear to God—" Boone springs to his feet.

 

"Hey, hey, hey," soothes Cam, "I'm sure between us we'll be fine. Now. Are you ready?"

 

"Yes'm."

 

"You want a rag to bite on?"

 

". . .Yes'm."

 

Cam hands him a scrap of the ruined blue shirt, and sinks the needle into his arm. To the boy's credit, he doesn't move a muscle.

 

Two seconds later, of course, he's choking down a scream, but no one could blame him.

 

* * *

 

"Got a Powder Ganger sleeping in my fucking bed."

 

"I'm really sorry. It's the Med-X," says Cam placatingly. "Knocks you right out."

 

"Yeah." Boone huffs. "Not worried about what he mighta done?"

 

"It was probably bad. It's usually bad."

 

"Throwin' your caps away helping guys like that."

 

"You didn't think twice about risking your life for him."

 

"Wasn't for him."

 

"I know." Cam rises from her crouching position next to the bed and stretches until her vertebrae pop. "What do I owe you for the room?"

 

"Nothing."

 

"That doesn't seem fair." The corner of Cam's lip twitches. "You've got a Powder Ganger sleeping in your bed."

 

Boone shrugs. "Quit giving away your caps. Good way to get stuck in a bad place."

 

"Speaking from experience?"

 

"I'm gonna go smoke." Boone stalks out of the room with a crumpled pack of cigs in his hand. Hers, thinks Cam irritably. Whatever. If he won't take caps, he can have those.

 

* * *

 

"Look. Knowing Manny, he's sleeping in that fuckin' dino right now." Boone rubs the back of his neck. "Should at least cut him a break while I'm here."

 

"Right. So, you want me and him," Cam points at the snoring Powder Ganger, "out of here by the time you get back, or?"

 

"Him, yeah."

 

"And me? I thought you were just in it to kill some Legionaries tonight. I mean I'm not exactly going to be cutting a swath of crimson through the Mojave, you know? At least not yet. I'm just after the one guy. Not that I wouldn't welcome the company," she rambles, "God knows I could use it. But you have a life here, don't you?"

 

"Long's we kill any Legion we come across, I'm good. Wouldn't call this,"—Boone gestures around the room—"life."

 

"Oh." Some kind of shaky ghost-smile settles on Cam's face. "I'll see Briscoe about some more supplies then."

 

" _After_ the Powder Ganger leaves."

 

"After the Powder Ganger leaves." She smiles wider.

 

"Don't look through my shit either."

 

"I wouldn't dream of it."

  


&&&&&

  
  
  


When he comes back after a full day and half an evening, Cam is still on the couch. Lab coat's on the floor though, there's bags on the ground, and her Vault suit is missing a sleeve. Her bare arm is wrapped in a bandage. Boone taps his own shoulder as a question. She frowns hard for a second and he's about to open his mouth when she finally gets it.

 

"Oh, this? I forgot all about that cut on my arm while I was patching up Paul. By the time I got around to it the blood was pretty much gluing my sleeve in place? I just cut off the whole thing to save myself the trouble."

 

"Huh." Boone shrugs. Sounds like a waste of a good suit.

 

"It was kind of stupid. My coat has a bloodstain in the same spot, which is never coming out, so." Cam sighs and sinks lower on the couch. "How was your day?"

 

"Boring."

 

"Really?" Cam gets to her feet and inspects the side of his face. "That bruise definitely wasn't there before. Did you get into a fight?"

 

"No." Boone pushes away her hand. "And don't play doctor with me."

 

"I'm not 'playing' anything," snaps Cam, and sits back down. "So I have two bits of good news, and some bad. Which do you want first?"

 

"Sandwich. Good-bad-good."

 

"Alright, sandwich. I like it. Good news: I bought us a ton of stuff for the road. Bad news, we're gonna have to lug it around." Cam crosses her arms. "Hm. I guess I have two pieces of bad news."

 

"Yeah?"

 

"So I went around town and talked to this ex-Ranger. Andy? And I asked him if the name Paul Svensson rang a bell. Apparently I treated a serial rapist."

 

He winces. "Didn't try anything, did he?"

 

"No. Paul was a perfect little gentleman. Said thank you ma'am and promised to keep his arm clean and splinted. Anyway, there's a bounty on his head, so if we see him again, I get my 40 caps back with interest." Cam smiles real bitter.

 

"That the other good news?"

 

"Oh, no." She perks up. "Good news is, while we were radioing station Charlie, Andy arranged for another NCR sniper to come and pick up your shifts. He said she was good. Not First Recon, you know, but good."

 

". . .Wow."

 

"So," Cam backtracks, "She's on her way now, but you can still get Andy to send her back, most likely. In case you change your mind."

 

"No, that's. . ." Well. "Jesus. Thanks. For swinging that."

 

"No problem. I thought it was the least I could do."

 

"It wasn't. The least. No way." Not by a long shot. "I mean it. Jesus."

 

"You're gonna make me blush." She waves her hand. "So what's the plan for tonight? I'd recommend we get some sleep and then leave in the morning, but."

 

"Where're we headed?"

 

"Boulder. . .City, I guess. We could make a stop at that REPCONN place Manny wants cleared out, but I don't have the reflexes to fight off feral ghouls right now. So if we go, that's all you."

 

"Sounds like a challenge." Boone holds back a smile.

 

"That's the spirit."

  


* * *

 

"OK," says Boone, standing over the carcass of a Nightkin. "Why can't you shoot a gun?"

 

Cam struggles out from under its massive grey arm—the limb alone has to be at least a hundred pounds. Once free, she tries to stand up, but her left leg gives way and Boone has to lunge to pull her up. "Thanks. And I feel like I've explained this. I was a doctor. I was never—forced to—"

 

"Bullshit. Can't even count all the ways to die out here. Even with a gun. Without? No way."

 

"Well, I haven't been around here very long, you know? I grew up in the Boneyard."

 

"Me too. Boneyard's every bit as fuckin' bad. And that pistol looks used."

 

"Look, please just drop it. We both have things we don't like to talk about, right?"

 

Boone opens his mouth, but the grate behind them rattles with thunderous footsteps and the whirr of a minigun. She imagines he rolls his eyes as they duck behind cover and bullets begin to pelt the metal hallway.

 

Eventually, they make their way down to the room on the second floor filled with filthy bunk beds. There's a reasonable lack of roaches or corpses, and it's warmer than outside, so they settle in.

 

"You talk a big game. About killing that kid if we see him again."

 

"Can we just sleep?" groans Cam.

 

"Don't think you could do it."

 

"I got that Legionary at the slave camp!"

 

"'Barely. 'S not the same." Boone rolls over to face Cam and fixes her with a glare. At least he doesn't sleep in his shades.

 

"Good _night,_ Boone."

 

* * *

 

The dinosaur looms in the distance. Cam waves. When they walk into town, she points at it.

 

"Are you coming with me?"

 

"No," says Boone.

 

"If you're sure." Cam shrugs and hobbles up the stairs to the dino shop. She comes back out a couple minutes later.

 

"So?"

 

"I think I'm in love."

 

"With Manny." Boone snorts. "Got some bad news."

 

"No, not with Manny. Duh. The new sniper?"

 

"Oh. Find your future husband?"

 

"Wife. Lt. Samira Nguyen. Dark eyes, silky hair. . .although I think she wants the NCR to annex this whole place."

 

"Huh. Don't see the big deal," Boone fixes his sunglasses with his thumb. "Half the town's ex-Republic anyway."

 

"I guess." Cam fidgets with her lab coat. "It just feels like they should call a vote or something."

 

"Where's Manny? Night shift?"

 

"Yep. We could slide a note under his door. 'Hi Manny, we cleared out REPCONN, it was weird as hell. Love, Cam and Boone."

 

"And miss out on the pay?" No wonder she was hurting for caps. Probably broke again after shelling out for supplies—and painkillers for a goddamn rapist.

 

"Over my dead body he's paying me. I almost got him killed!"

 

"He's paying _me_. You didn't clear out the place."

 

"So go ask for your stupid caps, Lone Ranger," Cam hisses.

 

Boone thinks about Manny. His angry hands, what he'll say if Boone shows up on his doorstep now. Brown eyes. "Fuck the caps then. Boulder City, right? Let's go."

 

"Just like that? You don't feel like maybe you need the money?"

 

"I don't know. You need it?"

 

"Okay, you know what, fine," Cam puts her face in her hands, "I'll play the asshole and go beg for money he's under zero obligation to give me."

 

"Just do— uh." Don't tell him I'm here. Boone stops himself from saying it.

 

"Did you say something?" Cam looks back over her shoulder.

 

"No."

 

". . .okay. Be right back."

 

She struts off to the top floor of the motel building, struggling more with the stairs than she normally does. Cam gives the door two sharp knocks. It swings open. She goes in slowly and comes out fast, limps down the stairs fast, and Boone starts to walk over, set to scrape her off the ground in case she falls. She doesn't.

 

"I swear I didn't say anything," says Cam before Boone can get a word in.

 

"What."

 

"Like, I walked in, and he said to fuck off he was sleeping. I said who do you think you're kidding, because he was in full uniform. Although I did think maybe he sleeps in his uniform. Regardless. . ."

 

"Uhuh."

 

"So he asks what am I here for and I tell him I _single-handedly_ cleared out REPCONN. And he laughed. For like a minute."

 

Boone covers a chuckle by clearing his throat. Cam doesn't look convinced.

 

"Yeah, ha ha. Laugh it up. Anyway, he asked about you. I think he was hoping you'd be there with me. I said you were, but you were picking up supplies and we had to keep moving, and that he should get some sleep anyway." She sighs. "And he pushed some NCR bills into my hand and called me a jealous bitch. So here we are."

 

"Oh."

 

"Yes, oh. I definitely did sound like a jealous bitch trying to convince him not to come out and see you, so." Cam stares at him, with the eye that's not hidden behind her stringy bangs.

 

"The money he gave you was NCR?"

 

"Yeah, so I think we should cash it before we head east. I don't know why he'd think NCR money was useful to us."

 

"Think that's the point."

 

"20, 40, 60, 70. . .another fifty. . . 100. . .Christ. Would you count it for me?" Cam squeezes her eyes shut, pinches her nose bridge and hands over the cash.

 

Boone flips through it. "$115 NCR."

 

"Oh. That's. . .how many caps?"

 

"Fifty. Tops." He thinks about going up there himself and beating some real payment out of Manny. But Manny would wipe the floor with him.

 

"Oh my God." Cam puts her face in her hands again. Then she breathes in quick and sharp, talks in a high voice. "Fine. It's fine. Pay's pay, right? Let's just—Boulder. You know? Let's go."

 

"If you say so."

 

* * *

 

Boulder City comes and goes like a spell of desert rain. Boone watches Cam talk her stuttering way through a hostage situation without a single round fired—not even by the Khans, and they're so fucking trigger-happy it's insane.

 

The Khan leader gives Cam Benny's lighter. To shove up his ass when she finds him. It's like her old lighter, which she dropped off the side of the REPCONN balcony, but engraved with a tiny pin-up girl. After a couple flicks it spits out a decent-sized flame, and she _beams_ at Boone. He smiles back a little.

 

"Do you think I should name it?" she asks him on the road to the Strip. "You know. Re-christen it."

 

"No." says Boone. "Take his gun when you kill him. Guarantee you he named his gun."

 

Cam raises an eyebrow, taps her temple twice.

 

The dune path they're following starts to get steeper. Something hums from higher up. Boone gets out his rifle. Cam grabs her pistol, for all the good it'll do.

 

Four Cazadores show up. Their blue shells shine.

 

"Fucking Christ," Cam spits, and fires thirteen rounds into the swarm. Her aim is all over the place, but she kills one and takes out a wing each on two of them.

 

The last one comes at Boone, faster than you can blink. Cam shouts something. He circles it, backs up, fires without scoping. Pain explodes in his thigh and he screams and screams, drops the gun, drops everything, falls to the ground

 

* * *

 

Carla is at the bar. She's poring over a glass of whiskey, has been for a while. She's wearing that red glittery dress. Open back. Her favorite. Dark, thick, _soft_ hair curtains her face, hiding it from him.

 

"I have got the meanest headache, Craig," she says without turning around. Pauses. "Ain't gonna bite, angel. C'mere."

 

He doesn't move. Nailed to the spot.

 

"Shy?" Carla laughs into her drink. She downs it and gets up, and her hair finally makes way for a sad, beautiful face. Her round lips are still painted, perfect and red. But her eyes are bloodshot. She has gray-black tears running down her cheeks.

 

She walks up to him, the sparkling dress trails behind. Closes in until their noses touch. Slow, pounding music swells around them and suddenly the bar is a hotel suite.

 

"I'm waiting," Carla whispers. Her voice is everywhere. She has too many eyes. But she's warm and soft and he wraps his arms around her. They fall into a red bed and she pulls him into a kiss. Craig hikes up her dress, without really thinking. Pushes a couple fingers inside her. She hums against his neck. Her pearl earring is cold. Her brown thighs are warm.

 

"I'm waiting."

 

Waiting for what baby.

 

"I'm a patient woman." She winks.

 

Carla you're not making sense.

 

"Just waiting, angel face, me an' Carla junior. Take your time. I love you."

 

The sun peeks between the flaps of their tent. Manny jabs him in the shoulder, hissing. "Craig. I need to get back to my bunk. Can't fucking move a muscle, you're all over me."

 

One for the road? Craig traces Manny's cheekbone with his thumb.

 

"Gorobets is gonna have our asses, you know," grins Manny, and leans in. The fresh stubble on his jaw scratches a little. But his lips are smooth and taste like smoke. His hands wander around under Craig's shirt.

 

Manny where's my baby.

 

Manny pulls away, and he's years older. Got a couple little wrinkles. A lot more stubble. He looks so tired. "You'll see them soon, alright? Stay with me."

 

I can't.

 

"Guess not, huh." Manny is standing, leaning into the side of the dino's mouth. "Well, let me go with you."

 

Not this time.

 

"Then. . .let me give you a keepsake."

 

Sure.

 

Manny's keepsake, or one of them, is a blotchy purplish hickey beneath Craig's ear.

 

It's dark when they wake up, legs tangled. Look I really have to get back.

 

"Sneaking around like old times." Manny claps him on the shoulder, blinking fast. "See you around, man."

 

* * *

 

Boone wakes up. Bad idea. His cock hurts like a sonuvabitch and he can't feel his leg. Carla's favorite dress is blue.

 

"How are you?" asks Cam.

 

He croaks. Cam laughs and grabs the canteen from her pack. "Weird," he says after a drink.

 

"Yep, that sounds about right. How's your. . .leg?"

 

"Can't feel it."

 

"Good. Tell me if and when the Med-X wears off, okay?" Cam paces around the camp. Maybe checking on things. She loops back. He watches her out the corner of his eye. "Do you know where you are?"

 

"On the ground."

 

Cam laughs again. "On the ground outside of Boulder City. We were on our way to the Strip when we ran into some Cazadores. You got stung on your thigh."

 

"Been asleep."

 

"You have. You've also been tenting your fatigues for about 14 hours. It's a side effect of the venom, especially since you were stung where you were. I imagine it'll be sore, but you'll live."

 

Jesus. Boone scrambles for something to cover up with. Cam takes off her coat and tosses it at him.

 

"For the record, I was too busy making sure you didn't die to really care."

 

"Christ. Is it gonna go down soon?"

 

"Yep. It shouldn't be long now that you're awake. Are you hungry at all? I heated up some of that bullshit canned spam over the fire."

 

Boone sighs. "Yeah. I could eat."

 

"Great." Cam plates two helpings and passes him one. "I'm not a cook, but food's food, right?"

 

"Sure."

 

They eat in silence for a couple minutes. Or. Boone eats. Cam just pokes at hers. He gets it. Stuff's bland enough to finally make his dick wilt. Then Cam wiggles her hand at him. "You know I lost this finger to a baby Cazador? Well, kind of. I guess I don't need to tell you this, but you lose all your sense when one of those things gets you. Like, nothing's real except the pain. I kind of wish I passed out like you did, though, or that there was someone to stop me from just taking it off with a scalpel."

 

"That's fucked."

 

"Right? Like, I've treated Cazador stings. I know it would have been fine. I knew. They heal on their own, the baby ones, mostly. They don't have the venom yet, so if you keep it clean you're fine. But just, it's five minutes of Hell. I can't even regret it," she shrugs. "I remember what it felt like and I can't imagine doing anything else. Not that it helped, but. Hey, you seem a little out of it." Cam frowns. "Did you have any weird dreams? I don't. . .really. . .have any point of reference except for when I got stung, but I had some fucked-up—"

 

"No," says Boone, feeling Manny's rough hands and Carla's soft mouth all over. "Just slept."

 

"Oh. All the better, right?"

 

"Yeah."

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Cam packs up their things. Boone bashfully offers her the lab coat back—at some point during the night he cocooned himself in it like a blanket—and she slips it on without a second thought. The old piece of shit's had worse.

 

Getting Boone on his feet takes all of their strength combined. He wobbles around a little, sweating, gritting his teeth, but eventually he finds a slow, consistent walking rhythm and they start to head for the skyscrapers that mark the Strip.

 

Boone usually carries the bulk of the supplies, but today both packs are roughly the same weight; probably a little easier on Boone, a lot harder on Cam. Still, Cam gets to take point for a change, setting the pace instead of hobbling to keep up with someone faster.

 

Speaking of hobbling—judging by his bow-legged walk, Boone must be chafing something awful. Cam quietly adds aloe salve to the supply list on her Pip-Boy. She used to remember these things without any aid. . .enter 9mm bullet through right neural hemisphere. Whatever.

 

* * *

 

"Some computer mechanic."

 

"I _tried!_ "

 

"You just hollered numbers at it."

 

"They were codes! Just. . ." Cam runs a hand through her lone bang, fishing out the tangles. ". . .not the right ones. Or not in the right language? I'd have to see."

 

"Pfft."

 

"Yeah, well, why don't we try your skills on it? Shoot one, go ahead. Hit it with a fucking lead pipe. See what happens."

 

"Shooting's useful other times."

 

"And programming isn't?" Cam sighs. "Maybe we can get in the good graces of someone powerful."

 

"Or just pass the credit check."

 

"Boone, it's 2000 caps. We'll be tripping over our beards by the time we have 2000 caps."

 

"Not if you'd quit throwing 'em away all the time."

 

* * *

 

"What a shithole." Boone makes no effort to keep his voice down, peering out into the street through the Atomic Wrangler's busted window.

 

Francine Garret huffs. "Well now, if that's how you feel, you can just—"

 

"Whoa, no, no, no," Cam jumps in, "we're sorry.  NCR are so nitpicky, you know how it is. You keep a fine establishment, miss Garret." She considers for a moment. "And. . .strikingly perfect hair." Cam winks, though the effect is probably lost with just one visible eye. "Maybe you can help with mine some time. It gets so unruly."

 

"All you California folks are either uptight or shameless." Francine shakes her head, fighting a smile. When she looks up, it's at Boone, and her expression is stony again. "Don't talk shit about my Wrangler, boy, and you and I won't have any issues." She turns back to Cam. "Now, you said two rooms?"

 

"Yes. That's twenty a night?"

 

"One room," says Boone.

 

"For Christ's sake, why?"

 

"Easier to save up. We need every cap."

 

". . .How. . ." Cam sighs deeply. "How large are the rooms?"

 

An hour of haggling later, Francine is shoving them key 19 and telling them to get the fuck out of her face. Room 19 is completely unfurnished except for a white lightbulb and two bedrolls with maybe four feet between them; seven caps a night, paid up-front for the first week.

 

"Well, here the fuck it is."

 

"Yep." Boone sets down his backpack and starts unpacking.

 

"I'm surprised you let me pay the extra two caps for bathroom priveleges." Cam follows suit, slipping out of her lap coat, scrunching it up into a facsimile of a pillow.

 

"Gotta piss somewhere."

 

"You know, I don't know why you're doing this."

 

"Doing what."

 

"This—I don't know. This. You came all this way with me, you lent me your room to treat that Svensson guy. You had my back in Boulder. You got _stung_ by a _Cazador_ and never complained once. And now you're all but signing on to spend at least a week with me in this dump," she smacks the bleak plaster wall for emphasis, "so we can hurry up and get to the Strip so _I_ can supposedly take revenge on some guy _you've_ never met."

 

Boone shakes his head, lighting a cigarette as he reclines on his bedroll. "Never mentioned it was revenge."

 

"I don't know that it will be. But does that change things?"

 

"Depends. Got a good reason?"

 

"He put a pretty good reason through my skull at point-blank range." Cam pulls back the hair from her face; once exposed, her left eye immediately waters in the harsh light. Just above it is the little crater, the roadmap scar she's traced with her fingertips a million times.

 

"Jesus. Holy fucking shit." Boone puts out the fresh cigarette and scoots over on his knees, beret and sunglasses forsaken by the bedroll. He looks unusually affected as he floats his fingers around the scar, touching without touching.

 

"Um." Cam presses the heel of her hand into her left eye. "You remember you asked me why I couldn't shoot a gun very well? Which I guess was a reasonable question. But here you go." She chuckles thinly. "Not to brag, I was actually kind of a crack shot before all this."

 

Boone says nothing, completely enraptured with the bullet scar.

 

"It's kind of also why I have trouble speaking. . .or walking. . .or remembering basic things. . ." Cam continues. "Yeah."

 

"People don't survive that shit," Boone breathes. "Do they?"

 

"I'm told I was very lucky. The gun was a small caliber, and at close range. Benny. . .that was his name—Benny's aim was off, I guess. The bullet skewed left, see—" She reaches for the scar, but finds his hand already hovering there. "You can touch it, you know, I won't keel over." He does so, cautiously. "So it didn't, I don't know, sever the brain halves or fuck up the brain stem or anything."

 

"That'd've been bad?"

 

"So the doctor in Goodsprings said. I know the brain stem is more or less what makes a person breathe, and I know the brain halves probably shouldn't be severed from each other for a variety of reasons. But I'm not a neurologist, that's largely the extent of my brain knowledge."

 

"Huh." Boone draws his hand back and shuffles away an appropriate distance. "So why'd he do it?"

 

"I was. . ." This could lead to an unwelcome line of questioning. "I was carrying—well, it was a courier job. It seemed like a little thing to send a whole courier for, but he wanted it pretty badly."

 

"What was it?"

 

"Some sort of poker chip. . .silvery. Just one. I don't know what it was about it. Maybe it was valuable?"

 

"Gotta hope you didn't get shot in the head over a ten-cap chip."

 

Cam grins. "God, right? But, I mean, he hired Khans to chase me all through the southern Mojave. And then didn't pay them, but still. It had to have been worth something."

 

"Yeah."

 

"I'm gonna find it. And Benny. I want to know what was so fucking important he tried to kill me for it." She puts her hands in her lap. "So that's pretty much the whole story. You can still leave if, you know, you're feeling like you walked into a total shitstorm. . .because it definitely is."

 

"Yeah, I'm staying. We paid ahead for the room."

 

"Well. I'm glad you were moved by my story." Cam rolls her eyes.

 

"Caps're caps," Boone shrugs, settling in to his sleeping bag. "And I want to see the guy's face when you come back from the dead."

 

"Me too."

 

Cam slaps dispassionately at the wall until she hits the light switch. She lies and listens to the gunshots and whispers in the streets until the smoky Freeside air carries her to sleep.

 

* * *

 

"Well, I got up early and checked. The Jet guy seems unlikely, and also a horrible person I don't want to do anything for, but the food stand guy said he'd pay three caps for any rat carcass we bring in. Only two if it's rotting." Cam shudders and swirls the colorless pile of scrambled gecko egg around on her plate.

 

"So we kill six-hundred sixty-seven rats."

 

"First of all: no, and second: how the fuck do you do that so quickly?"

 

Boone shrugs. ""Just do. Technically six sixty-six and two-thirds, but I figure if you kill a full rat you're not gonna just bring in two-thirds of it. Like, what happens to the last third?"

 

Cam breaks into laughter after one look at his face; as inscrutably neutral as if he'd just told her the weather. "I. . .really don't know how to respond to that, except let's keep that plan on the back burner for now."

 

"Yeah," agrees Boone around a mouthful of eggs.

 

"So that leaves that job at the Silver Rush, the Wrangler's cash-collecting job, and some ghoul beggar told me there's a Followers outpost in town. Maybe they need a supply runner."

 

"And the Kings."

 

"And the Kings! I don't know what we might get out of that. They seem more interested in making people owe them than vice versa, but who knows."

 

"So how do we do this?"

 

"I'm thinking you look into the muscle jobs, for—obvious reasons. So the Silver Rush and maybe the Garret thing?"

 

"And you do the Followers and the Kings."

 

"Yeah. Maybe they need someone trained. Although," Cam puts down her fork, "they don't usually work for profit. We'll see. The Kings, I have absolutely no idea what to even expect."

 

"Then I oughtta come with you."

 

"Maybe. I don't think I'll finish up with the Followers today though. If I do, I'll. . .kill some rats to pass time?"

 

"I'll take the Silver Rush. Gonna go grab my shit, meet you here tonight." Boone stuffs a last chunk of bread into his mouth and heads upstairs.

 

Almost immediately, a round-faced man in a dull suit slides into the now-vacant chair. "Sounds to me like you folks have a bit of a money problem. Am I mistaken?"

 

"I—"

 

"Oh, excuse me. Where are my manners?" The man holds out his hand. "James Garret, co-owner of the Wrangler. I hear you and your NCR man gave my sister quite a headache last night."

 

"That's—"

 

"Now, don't worry, I'm not here to chew you out. In fact, I wanted to offer you a chance to make it up to us, and then some."

 

"How—?"

 

"At least three hundred caps' worth of 'then some', actually. Do I have your attention?"

 

* * *

 

Cam pulls her lab coat tighter to guard against the surprisingly cold morning air. Her other hand is in her left pocket, gripping her pistol. Not only did Garret re _fuse_ to let her get a word in edgewise for twenty minutes, his proposal was thoroughly creepy—but there's good money in it, on the off chance she finds a. . .cowboy sexbot, and a ghoul, and a. . .? God, she should have keyed it into her Pip-Boy. Wasn't that Protrectron in Primm some sort of a cowboy?

 

The wooden fort looks even bigger up-close, and the huge rough doors are opened just enough for someone to slip between. Cam's heart pounds in her chest for no reason—there's no reason—out of all the outposts in this desert, there has to be a near-zero chance—

 

"Camíla?" calls the uncertain voice of Julie Farkas.

 

"I—yeah," smiles Cam crookedly. "Hey, Jules."

 

Julie drops her clipboard and sprints toward Cam, her coat flapping in the wind like a surrender flag. She envelops Cam with her sturdy arms and laughs into her shoulder. "Cam. Cam. Cam! I can't believe it."

 

"I missed you."

 

"Oh my lord. Camíla. I missed you too. I thought we'd never see each other again."

 

They stand in silence for a while, embracing. Cam breathes in the scent of honey. Eventually she holds Julie at arm's length. "I love your hair. It's very you."

 

Julie giggles and wipes at her eyes. They're still a hard color to describe, a kind of. . .blue-green, shot through with light. She's still breathtaking. Her soft face. "I thought it was time for a change. But," she smooths the mohawk idly between her palms, "what in the _world_ brings you to the Mojave?"

 

"I. . ." Cam glances around. People have generally stopped staring, except for a few lab coats in medical tents who seem to think they're being subtle.

 

"We can go inside if that's easier." Julie frowns.

 

"No, don't worry. It's just. . ." Cam drops her voice. "If you want the truth, I spent about all the time I could at ABMU, and I didn't. . .want to go back to Sebastían and the others, at least not yet. I remembered what you told me before you left, and I thought, why not, right?"

 

"Cam. . ." Julie's beautiful eyes are wide and frightened. "Are you feeling all right?"

 

"Um. Yeah?"

 

"Your speech? It's. Kind of fragmented? You hear it, right? Are you. . ."

 

Oh. "So that's the other thing. Just after I left Cali, I—well?" Cam draws back the hair from in front of her eye; it pricks and waters in the early sunlight.

 

"Oh, my god. Oh my god," Julie breaks her usual rule against blasphemy. "That's? Cam please god tell me that's not a bullet hole," she hyperventilates.

 

"Hey, hey. It's okay." Cam puts an arm around her and walks her into the nearest vacant tent. They sit and cry for a while.

 

Then Julie sniffs decisively and pulls herself out of the cheap plastic chair. "Who. . .treated it? Lord knows it wasn't us. I'd know."

 

"No, it wasn't. One Doc Marshall, in Goodsprings. That's where it happened. A patrolling Securitron brought me in to him."

 

"When was the last time you had a check-up?"

 

 _10.??.81._ "Um, around October."

 

"Camíla, my good lord. It's December now. You should have been having them every few weeks." Julie shakes her head. "I'll get someone, and we can catch up afterward. You'll be in town for a while?"

 

"At least a week." Probably much longer, thinks Cam. "I'm at the Wrangler."

 

"I'll head over there tonight. We can talk over dinner, all right? My treat," Julie winks, and whisks out of the tent. She says something to one of the doctors.

 

A few minutes later, the tent flap rustles and a yellow-haired string bean of a man steps through; he fixes his glasses with one hand and holds out the other. Cam shakes it, and feels the man recoil when his thumb brushes her stub finger.

 

"Hey. Arcade Gannon."

 

"Charmed," says Cam without thinking, and Arcade Gannon offers her half a smile. "Cam. . .Camíla Rosales."

 

"I gathered." Arcade pulls up a chair. "I—wait, can you sit on the bed please?"

 

"Oh—sure," Cam moves from her chair to the raised patient bed, feeling suddenly very much like a patient.

 

"Just clarifying, this is only for practicality's sake. I'm really not trying to be condescending—Julie mentioned you were a Follower. 'I know it's just your way, Gannon, but so help me if I hear you've been talking down to her'—"

 

"Don't worry about it, please. Julie's like that; protective."

 

"Yes. Well. I'll give you this: I've never once seen her cry in all the time I've worked with her. And then one Camíla Rosales strolls in and she's weeping for joy and then sadness within the span of five minutes. It puts her in rather a new light."

 

"Oh, Jesus." Cam can't stifle an embarrassed laugh. "Will you tell her I had no idea she was going to be here? God, if I knew I'd be. . .undermining her image, or. . ."

 

"Oh, no." Gannon paces around the tent, looking for something. "I don't necessarily mean a negative light. If anything, it makes her more human." He finds a pencil on the desk and flourishes it triumphantly, walking back to the bed. "Having. . .you know. Loved ones?"

 

"I feel like you and I know very different Julies, Dr. Gannon."

 

"Oh. Doctor—no. No no, I'm going to have to veto that. 'Arcade' will be fine, thank you. Or 'Gannon' if you're Julie, and you're chewing me out for an administrative error which really should have been—"

 

"Okay. Calm down." Cam smiles, hopefully in a placating way. "Arcade, then. It's a great name. Unique."

 

"I'm glad you approve." Arcade shakes his head. "Sorry. It just feels. . .not right, if that makes any sense. Undeserved. I barely do any field work and I'm not even technically a phD, so."

 

"I really. . .don't think anybody out here gives half a fuck. I mean—if you can disinfect a wound or set a limb, you're a doctor to these people. Shit, if you can treat a high fever or perform an amputation, you're Jesus."

 

"Be that as it may. I know what a real doctor looks like, and I'm not it."

 

Cam frowns. A real doctor. . . "Did you grow up near the Boneyard MU?"

 

"The Bone—oh," Arcade sputters, "no. No. West coast, though."

 

"So you are trained."

 

"Yes. I. . .I'm a neurologist, with a concentration in cognitive neuroscience. In theory. In practice, I'm too specialized to be of any use most of the time, so I sit around doing busywork. I'm currently researching the medical applications of local flora."

 

"That seems like kind of a far cry from neurology."

 

"Doesn't it? But someone has to do it. So Julie says. Looking at an actual trauma case again is actually a nice change of pace. On that note, could you tie back your hair, dr. Rosales?"

 

Cam obliges, chuckling. "Cam. Either both of us are 'doctor' or neither is. I feel too powerful this way."

 

Arcade smiles. "Well. Not to freak you out with the sheer measure of your own influence, but you could very easily slander me in Julie's presence and I'd see a subtle, but remarkably annoying increase in my workload. Especially puke duty. It's like her guillotine."

 

"She can do that? I thought the Followers were all about democracy."

 

"She's no dictator, obviously. No Caesar, if that's how I'm making it sound. She's just the only one with any desire or capability to direct affairs here, so we defer to her, but we're all equals." Arcade traces around the scar, looks at it from different angles. "She listens to her disciples."

 

"That's good to hear."

 

"She hasn't let it go to her head, to her credit. Can you describe your symptoms for me?"

 

"Um." Cam gestures to her mouth, "—this, obviously. Speaking." She holds out her left hand, which gives a fairly violent spasm. "That, in my left arm and leg."

 

"Have you considered wearing that Pip-Boy on your other arm? I don't think the added weight is doing this one any favors."

 

"I couldn't. All the dials are on the right side—I'd have to take it apart, flip the screen, rewire the display."

 

"There's a man in town who does those." Arcade wiggles his fingers vaguely. "Techy things. Mick and Ralph's, if you have time. I have to insist."

 

"Alright. Let me—" Cam moves to enter the memo into her Pip-Boy. "Oh. I guess I'm having trouble remembering. . .new information, mostly. All the old stuff is there, but things like this."

 

"Okay, I'll note that. Anything else?"

 

"I feel nauseous. . .almost all the time? Especially in bright light or heat." She catches Arcade's smile. "Yeah, I know. Desert; light, heat. Shit out of luck."

 

"As it were. Just as a point of curiosity, what's your field?"

 

"My—? Medical? I'm a general surgeon. I operate mostly on the chest and limbs. . .I'm still playing with the idea of going back and specializing."

 

". . .Ah."

 

They both watch her left arm tense and relax, fingers clenching and unclenching even as Cam tries her hardest to steady them.

 

"Oh my God. That kind of puts me out of a job, doesn't it?"

 

"Well." Arcade taps the pencil to his lip thoughtfully. "I don't want to jump the gun, so to speak, but."

 

* * *

 

Seems like only assholes shop at the Silver Rush. 'Course, assholes run it. Boone grits his teeth as another big-shot in a suit walks up.

 

The guy's eyes flit between Boone and the other guard, Simon. Simon keeps quiet.

 

"Oh, for. . .welcome to the Silver Rush." Boone sighs.

 

The guy frowns. "Quite. I was hoping to peruse your wares this afternoon."

 

"Fine. Just need to check you for firearms. Pick 'em up on your way out."

 

"Now," big-shot huffs, "surely there's no need for that."

 

"We have to search you."

 

"You have my word I'm not carrying any weapons. Isn't a man's word his bond?"

 

"Tough _shit_ , you can let me search you or beat it."

 

Beat it he does, huffing and puffing 'well I never' and 'the nerve!'

 

"I get the feelin' you're not gonna hold this job down for very long."

 

"Signed on for a guard job, not negotiating with assholes fifty times a day," snaps Boone.

 

"Comes with the job," Simon shrugs. "Shame, though. I feel like you really got my back out here."

 

"Mm."

 

Four hours later, Boone sprints away from the explosion, slamming the Wrangler's double doors behind him when he gets there. He drops his 200-cap advance pay on the counter and looks Francine Garret dead in the eye. "Anyone comes asking, I don't stay here, I've never been in here, you've never heard of me." And he runs upstairs, barricades himself into room 19 and lights a cigarette.

 

* * *

 

"Jesus fucking Christ, what was that?" someone shrieks.

 

"Is everyone all right?" Julie's voice rings out over the confusion. "Ow, Cam, my hand."

 

"Oh," Cam breathes, letting go. "Sorry."

 

The fire bleaches the sky from black to orange and ribbons of smoke start to twist above the walls of the Old Mormon Fort, speckled with tiny red embers.

 

"Shoot." Julie squints. "I'll go and see what happened. You stay here."

 

"You can't go out there alone!"

 

"I won't be." Julie nods at an approaching figure; a ghoul woman in a cowboy hat. "This is Beatrix, one of our guards."

 

"Evenin'." Beatrix tips her hat. A half-dozen men and women in ragged mercenary gear trail behind her. "Ready to head out, Farkas?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Be safe," Cam says lamely.

 

Julie smiles over her shoulder and disappears into the night.

 

Slowly, the Fort settles back into an uneasy rhythm; addicts still need their Fixer, unlucky tourists need their bullet wounds patched up, and some poor Follower bastard is probably still on puke duty. Cam sits down in the middle of it, the eye of the hurricane, and watches the flames rise.

 

"Must be a pretty big building got hit," a young woman says, and sits herself down in the dirt next to Cam. She smells of shit and vodka.

 

"Must be," says Cam, rubbing her stub finger absentmindedly. "Can you tell which one?"

 

"Oh, I'm pretty fucked up right now, lady, I actually got no idea which way's what way. Right now." The woman tosses her matted hair over her shoulder. "We're facing south right now, it's Mick's place. North, it's the Rush or the Wrangler."

 

"The Silver Rush?" Cam snaps back to reality; the constant movement around them. The biting night air. Her vision whirls.

 

"Or the Wrangler. Or the Wrangler," repeats the woman. She politely turns her head to throw up and continues; "No skin off my ass anyway. 'Cept the Wrangler a little bit. Good booze. 'Spensive though. And that Garret boy's so oblivious. Fuck else is it s'posed'a mean when a lady invites you up to her room. Means fuck me. Jesus H. Christ. Blind as a bat."

 

"Alright," says Cam, swallowing down panic. "Let's get you into one of these bunks, and you can sleep it off."

 

"Don't sound too good yourself, lady," the woman giggles as Cam struggles to hoist her up. Her left leg buckles and they're both about to fall when a lab coat appears and says he's got it—

 

"Arcade."

 

"The very same." Arcade drapes one of the woman's skinny forearms across his back, and she buries her fingers in his coat lapel. "I'll get her into a bed, and then we'll see about. . .that." He eyes the rank white puddle of vomit.

 

"Just get the puke response unit on it." Cam grins.

 

"Oh, well." Arcade fixes his glasses with his free hand. "I'll admit I exaggerated puke duty a little. Between these four walls, the Followers are a democracy. We're all on puke duty, all the time."

 

"God bless America." Cam wipes her hands on the remains of her vault suit. "I'll take care of it, okay?"

 

"I am in your debt." Arcade hurries toward one of the medical tents, supporting the young woman—now limp enough to raise Cam's concern.

 

Trying to keep her mind off of it, off of everything, she finds a fraying mop and gets to work.

 

* * *

 

Julie, Beatrix and the guards are back by the time Cam stashes the mop away, the remains of the puke covered with soil. Julie is breathing hard and her mohawk has crumpled. "It was the Silver Rush. An electrical fire. We have no real means of putting it out."

 

"How many—any dead? Do we know the cause?" Cam pelts her with questions. "Anyone identifiable? Any NCR?"

 

Two neat frown lines appear between Julie's dark eyebrows. "About a dozen bodies, right, Bea?"

 

"A dozen," the ghoul agrees.

 

"Yes. Right. We. . .identified. . .ten or eleven explosion victims: the two Van Graff siblings and their guards, no clue about who the other man was."

 

"What—what did the other one look like," Cam blurts before she finishes her sentence. "Black? White? Any identifying features?"

 

"Camíla, what does this matter to you? Have you made friends with the Van Graffs now?" Julie runs a hand through her hair, looking just as exasperated with the failing mohawk as she is with Cam.

 

"Julie, please!"

 

"I. . .The last man appeared to have been the bomber, so. . .you can imagine he was difficult to identify. White, though, perhaps 30s. . .that's all we could find."

 

"I need to go."

 

"Cam—"

 

"I'll be back tomorrow. I need to go," Cam repeats, slipping between the massive wooden doors.

 

* * *

 

Julie catches up to her almost immediately, easily matching Cam's frantic limp. "Cam. What in the world could you possibly want with the man who bombed the Van Graffs?"

 

"I don't. . ." Cam shakes her head, trying to ease away the ache in her temples. "I don't think it was him. But I need to be sure."

 

Julie sighs. "Who do you think it might have been?"

 

"Was there a guard, um, unaccounted for?"

 

"Not that we'd know. Cam, who are you _looking_ for?"

 

"Just. . .someone I'm traveling with. An ex-NCR guy, since I can't. . .y'know. Shoot very well. Anymore."

 

"That is sensible, I guess." Julie's face is hard to read. "But what was he doing at the Silver Rush?"

 

"It's kind of a really long story. I was hoping we could talk about it over dinner, but. . ." Cam gestures loosely at the smoke plumes billowing into the sky from afar.

 

"You said you were staying at the Wrangler."

 

"I am."

 

"You don't think he could be there?"

 

Cam hugs herself to guard against the cold. The air starts to taste of dust. "I. . ."

 

"Why don't we check there," Julie puts an arm around her, "and if we don't find anything, we'll go back to the fort and fix this in the morning."

 

"I—yeah. Okay. Yeah."

 

* * *

 

The hallway on the Wrangler's top floor is cold and damp-smelling. Cam and Julie huddle miserably outside door 19. "Boone?"

 

A moment passes.

 

"Yeah."

 

"Oh," Cam sighs, and puts her hands over her face. "Holyjesuschrist. You know you scared the shit out of me?"

 

Silence.

 

"Okay, will you—fucking open up? Do you have a chair or something blocking the door, because we tried the key and—" The door swings inward. Boone is standing on the other side, arms crossed, as unreadable as always in his polarized shades.

 

"We're out of cigs."

 

"We're—!" _Her_ cigs, first of all, and there was a half carton's worth in there! "That's all you have to fucking say?"

 

Julie puts her hands on Cam's shoulders and interjects calmly. "There was an incident at the Silver Rush earlier today. Do you know anything about that, Mr.—?"

 

"Boone."

 

"Alright." Julie looks taken aback for a second, but bounces back almost immediately. "Mr. Boone. The Van Graffs and their guards were killed in an explosion this evening. I'm told you were present."

 

"Yeah?" Boone scratches the side of his nose.

 

"She's not a cop or whatever, if that's your hang-up," Cam encourages. "She's a Follower. They don't care."

 

"Well, on a humanitarian level, I care a little bit when people are killed," Julie glares.

 

"You're not going to arrest him, is my point."

 

"No," says Julie hesitantly.

 

Boone sighs. "Not a lot to tell. I was standing guard, we let in some shifty guy without friskin' him, next thing I know the whole fucking place blows up to kingdom come."

 

"That would explain the body we found not in uniform."

 

"Oh my god," Cam talks into her palms. " _You_ blew up the Silver Rush?"

 

" _No_ , I fucking didn't, I—"

 

"Alright! Alright." Julie stops them. "We aren't here to assign blame. _I_ only want to understand the situation better, and Camíla was worried—"

 

"—that I was gonna lose my investment," Cam hastily finishes. "Did you get the day's pay?"

 

"Told 'em half up front. Couple hundred."

 

"Good man."

 

Julie eyes them with a mix of confusion and indignation, excuses herself and makes Cam promise to stop by in the morning.

 

Cam, for her part, gets ready for bed. What the fuck else is there to do?

 

"Camíla. How do you spell that, two E's?"

 

"No, you just put a little slash on the I."

 

"Oh. That Spanish?"

 

"I think so."

 

"Got a Spanish last name?"

 

"Sure. I'm Mexican." Cam fumbles for the light switch. "It's Rosales."

 

"Huh."

 

"What did you think 'Cam' was short for?"

 

"Dunno. Cameron?"

 

"That's a man's name," snaps Cam.

 

"Alright, hey. Sorry."

 

"Do you have a last name?"

 

"Boone."

 

"First name. Whatever. You fucking know what I mean."

 

"Yeah. I got one."

 

Silence.

 

"You know you scared the complete shit out of me?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

* * *

 

The next day breaks too early, with an impatient knock on door 19. Some scrawny King floating in his too-big leather jacket is carrying a message from the Followers.

 

(and here's about where i gave up lol, if you read this far i wish i had a button to somehow give YOU kudos)

  



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